


Abandon

by dezolis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezolis/pseuds/dezolis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She just wants to let go.  Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme for the following prompt:  Lysa/Oberyn - One truly blissful night for Lysa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandon

It’s revenge, she thinks, perhaps even pity. Surely it’s not that he truly desires her, Lysa believes, the reason why Oberyn Martell watches her steadily with dark eyes as her husband plays the peacemaker with the princes of Dorne. Jon doesn’t notice, not when Oberyn first begins to stare, not when he leans back languidly, invitingly in his chair, not when Lysa begins to return the gaze. Jon never notices anything to do with Lysa, not truly. He drones ever on about unfortunate circumstances and the need for reasoned responses, her dear husband a most unfortunate circumstance himself as far as Lysa is concerned.

She knows she’s alone in that thought. And perhaps if she were another girl, she would disagree. She may cite his great love of his wards or his desire to see Westeros mend as quickly as possible. If she were charitable, she could say he is not _unkind_ to his wife. He expects no more than any other man would and somewhat less in regards to a woman’s virtue. Lysa is supposed to be grateful for that. But Lysa’s gratefulness and charity fled with the tang of tansy and she hasn’t been able to find it again. 

It has to be revenge, she decides. Because as she listens to his reasoned pleas, the only reasoned response she has to Jon Arryn is the desire to throttle the words from his throat. 

Or maybe Oberyn senses she shares his distaste for her husband. She’s been the dutiful wife so far during this trip to Dorne but nothing beyond. There’s nothing in her family words that demands that she must pretend to actually enjoy Jon’s lacking company. An observant man could find something in the formality of her courtesies. And Oberyn is definitely observing her.

Lysa finds she misses his stare after she and Jon are dismissed and shown to their quarters. The Martells were kind enough to put some distance between Jon’s bedchamber and hers. She laughs to herself that the heat will likely keep Jon from making the journey needed to bother her in the night. She’s disappointed then when there’s a knock on her door late at night, but much happier when the door opens.

“Am I disturbing you?” Oberyn asks.

_Yes, in so many ways_ , she wishes to say but she is still a lady and still unsure of his motives so she only welcomes him with practiced, well-worn politeness. 

“We’re not in talks. There’s no need to be formal,” he says. To illustrate, he sits down upon the corner of her bed, looking for all the world as if he belongs there.

“I wouldn’t wish to offend,.“ Lysa knows the price of her perceived offenses and wishes to never pay it again. But he’s watching her once more in that way no other man has watched her, not even her sweet Petyr, and she thinks that she might be owed for being forced to pay too much.

“It’s your husband that gives offense with his contemptible excuses.”

_Revenge, it is_ , Lysa concludes, but Oberyn continues. “I suspect you understand. What excuse were you given when your father sold you into the bed of an old man?”

Lysa blushes at his boldness and though she shares his opinion, she can only reply with nonsense about what it honor it is to be married to a great lord.

“And how does he honor you, my lady?”

“By being quick with his fumblings,” she says, starling herself that she could speak so. She does not wish to take it back, not after Oberyn rewards her with laughter and a grin more licentious than his stare.

“I knew there was more fire to you than your brilliant hair! But I must confess, speed is not a quality I would name to your husband.”

There’s a giddiness in her now, making her more daring, more alive than she’s been in longer than she cares to count. “Oh, but he must be quick, lest he tire and fall asleep before he’s through.”

He laughs again but quickly grows serious. “A shame. That’s not how a woman of beauty and wit should be honored.”

Beauty and wit? Lysa cannot recall a man saying such things to her. Cat is the beauty. Cat is the clever one. She is the second sister, the shadow, wanted only for a womb and even for that, only if she does as she’s told with it.

“How would you honor me?” she asks, both afraid and desperate for the answer.

He does not answer with words. He rises from the bed with the grace of a predator and Lysa wants nothing more than to be his prey, to be pursued, to be wanted. She gives no thought to whatever motives drive him to place his lips on hers. His body is firm and warm against hers and there’s a hint of spice in his scent and these are the only things she cares about. His tongue presses into her mouth and the warmth only grows. This is what she needs, she thinks, the heat of the sun. This is what she deserves.

“Do you know how a woman should be honored?” he purrs into her ear after he breaks the kiss.

She wraps her arms around him as tightly as she can. _Show me_.

“She should be properly worshipped,” he says. _Please_.

“And then well fucked.” _Yes_.

He begins with the former. She dislikes him pulling away but then giggles at how chastely his kisses the tips of her fingers while his eyes glimmer with wicked intent. Soon enough, he’s traveled the length of her arms and onto her shoulders and neck. Lysa would take the second part of Oberyn Martell’s idea of honor whenever he cared to give it, but he is a man of his word. Adoration comes first.

He lifts the skirt of her dress teasingly, one hand on the fabric and the other on her leg. He does not go an inch without a caress until he reaches her thighs. He gives Lysa a questioning look, a last chance to turn back. She should take it, she knows. She should be ashamed that it’s gone this far. _Haven’t you learned your lesson, Lysa_? she hears in her father’s voice. 

_No, father. I learned_ your _lessons_.

She decides she needs to unlearn them. She decides she will let Oberyn teach her all he knows.

She grabs her dress from Oberyn’s hand and pulls it all the way off. “Impatient?” he asks but he doesn’t disapprove. Lysa motions to his own clothing. He takes off his tunic and unlaces the top of his breeches. He tells her she can do the rest at her leisure. 

She starts but then he returns his attention to her thighs, both hands free to run with a rough tenderness across her flesh, and Lysa quickly forgets her task. She gasps when he slips a finger under her smallclothes and again when he adds a second to stroke her sex. Lysa’s touched herself like this before but those times were feeble experiments, curiosity without conviction. Oberyn’s touches are practiced and sure. Every movement builds a sweet tension inside her and when it breaks, she needs to dig her fingers into his back to steady herself.

“Feeling worshipped?”

“Yes.” 

He grabs her bottom and lifts her up to carry her to the bed. She eases the burden by wrapping her legs about his waist and her arms around his neck. She loves being held like this. In this moment, she’s the only woman in his world and he wants it that way.

He’s not gentle placing her on the bed and Lysa laughs as he practically tears the wet ruin of her smallclothes from her. She returns the favor in kind, clutching at the laces she forgot and setting out to undo them as quickly as she can. There’s a kind of violence to how hard she pulls on them. Oberyn leans over her to murmur his approval.

That praise is almost as sweet as his caresses and she doesn’t want either to stop. The laces finally gone, she draws his cock out from his breeches. She needn’t even coax him to hardness. She could nearly cry. No one’s ever taken such pleasure in pleasuring her. She lies back upon the bed, legs spread and her entire body aching with need.

He is gentle entering her, gentler than Lysa thought a man could be. His eyes never leave hers when he pushes deeper in. His pace as he moves back and forth within her is tantalizingly slow and she’s shocked to hear herself begging him to move faster, more roughly. The words are so foreign compared to the desperate pleading that marked her night with Petyr and the silent resentment she lets fester while with her husband. 

_These words are better_ , she thinks after his seed spills inside her and her name pours from his lips. _Lysa_. Murmured like a song, like a prayer. Oberyn doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t shove her aside because he is through. He resumes his kisses, licking and sucking at her breasts, placing teasing nips on her belly and finally settling between her legs where he greedily laps up the mingled taste of her cunt and his own seed. Lysa bolts upright at the touches of his tongue and all words are swept away by guttural, half-feral moans and gasps.

And even after that, Oberyn stays. He lies beside her, pulling her close and Lysa is quiet and content, listening to his breath as it calms from heavy panting to a soft stir.

It could remain like this until morning, but Lysa knows it will go no further than that. The thought lets her old doubts creep in and though she regrets it before she even says it, Lysa can’t stop from asking why she had it at all. “Did you come to me to get revenge on my husband?”

He lets out a huff. “If I wanted revenge, I’d have run spear through his heart . And if Robert Baratheon had been the one to set foot in Dorne, only his head would have left it. Alas, your husband is just the impotent messenger of the true criminals. Revenge on him means nothing.”

“Truly?”

“Do you doubt a man could desire you?”

“Why then? Did you pity me for having an old man for a husband?”

His lips curl in disgust but it is not because of her, but for her. “How misused must a woman be to question herself so? Perhaps I do pity you now, but I was not lying. I saw someone I desired, I sought her out. Lust is not a complicated emotion.”

Lust, he says, and Lysa will believe it. It’s love that’s always confounded her. It’s love that she thought held the promise of happiness and protection but it’s love that’s given her misery and pain. Lust gave her this night, this respite from her disappointments and loss.

So it’s lust she’ll embrace, if only for the rest of the night. Come morning, she’ll be Lysa Arryn again. But tonight, Lysa Tully can still dream.


End file.
